


Two Knights Defense

by looneyngilo2, romanticalgirl



Category: Homicide: Life on the Street
Genre: Gen, Podfic, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Available, Podfic Length: 20-30 Minutes, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-11-30 14:50:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11465865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/looneyngilo2/pseuds/looneyngilo2, https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: Tim gets out on early parole and tries to figure out where he's supposed to go from there.





	Two Knights Defense

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to the amazing looneyngilo2! What a great, fun experience!

Stream Podfic  


Download option:  
Click [here](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2017/Two%20Knights%20Defense.mp3) to download.

He’s never gotten over Adina.

People - his shrink - tell him that it makes sense. It was his first case. A red ball that stayed red on the board. Never wiped away from there, so he can’t let it go, even if he wants to. Tim knows that’s part of it. The easy part that even an armchair psychiatrist could figure out. The real truth is that he knows who killed her. He knows the araber did it. But knowing isn’t proving.

He’s thought about it a lot. He’s had time. Nothing but time since Frank had put the cuffs on him up on the rooftop. Tim’s own cuffs locked tight around his wrists. He’d made it worse when he’d spoken. Told Frank confession apparently was good for the soul, but it probably was all bad from here on out.

Meldrick took his statement and Kellerman stared at him like he had any right. Tim was just glad Gee wasn’t there to watch him go down. Being a bad cop for a good reason apparently wasn’t any better than being a bad cop for the wrong reasons. 

He knew the rest of the squad understood. Maybe even agreed that Tim did the right thing. But they were all good cops as far as this sort of thing went.

All of them.

Except him.

“There’s a true crime book.” Tim looks up and Meldrick’s standing there. He nods toward the passenger seat of his car. He’s leaning against the side of it, arms crossed over his chest.

“About?” Tim’s not actually curious, but he’s not sure what else to say.

“Adina. The reporter that got the okay to interview you. You know she thought you were going to talk about your case.”

He’s not a robot, but his answer is as automatic as if it’s programmed. “Adina was my case.”

“You got anywhere to go?”

Tim frowns as if realizing Meldrick’s actually there. “How did you know I was getting out.”

“What you did doesn’t change who you are.”

“I hope you don’t mean a cop, because I’m definitely not that anymore.”

“Our friend.”

Tim looks at him, his voice betraying disbelief. “Yeah? See, I never would have called us that.”

**

The rest of the ride is silent, and Meldrick is probably as relieved as Tim when he pulls up outside Tim’s dad’s old house. The door is askew on its hinges, one of them obviously broken. He pushes it open, giving Meldrick a wave over his shoulder. He left the book on the seat. He’d lived the story. Reading about it would mean nothing. Adina was dead. The araber was dead. Even proof wouldn’t change anything. Besides, there was no proof. If there had been, Tim would have found it.

And maybe then he wouldn’t be standing here after getting out of prison. Maybe he wouldn’t be in his father’s house in a room full of ghosts.

**

Boxes are like drunks sprawled around the room, contents spilling out of them like viscera, looted through by whoever it was crashing in the house. He doesn’t have money that he can access today, so he jerry-rigs the door and walks around the neighborhood, prying boards off broken windows of other buildings to board his up.

He thinks about getting caught -- theft? vandalism? -- and wonders what that would mean with a murder conviction under his belt.

When he gets back to the house there’s a car parked along the curb, engine idling. Tim leaves the wood leaning against the house and crosses his arms over his chest, not moving closer, not giving ground. It’s like an old West showdown, somehow with both of them squinting into the sun. All that’s missing is the dramatic score.

Frank drives away and Tim sinks to his knees in the yard, bleeding from wounds he’d almost convinced himself were healed.

**

He floor’s not more comfortable than a prison bed, but it’s a near thing. His entire body hurts when he makes it to his feet. He gets the boards up with a makeshift hammer, but gives up on actually fixing the door. It needs a hinge, which means money and tools. He also has to visit his parole officer. He can kill two birds with one stone. The thought makes him laugh. Killing anything is probably a bad idea. Birds. Time. Bad guys.

It’s a longer list nowadays.

His parole officer is with another person when Tim gets there, so he stands at the window and stares out. It’s gray and cloudy, and in the distance, Tim can see police headquarters. He spent years of his life there, but picturing the squad room is difficult. Desks and paperwork and the white board in red and black, sometimes a hint of blue. He can remember the cage though. And the rooftop.

He wonders how old Olivia and Frank Junior are now. He wonders if it’s worth doing the math.

**

His parole officer sticks her head out of her office a few minutes after her last client leaves. “Mr. Bayliss?”

Tim can’t help smirking. “Last time I was here they called me Detective.”

“Last time you were here, it was under very different circumstances.”

He smiles, a wry twist to his mouth. “To put it mildly.”

“Come in. Sit down. We have a lot to talk about.”

**

He knows all the conditions he has to abide by. She gives him leads on jobs, warns him to stay away from criminal activity, and doesn’t seem amused when Tim tells her he’d have to move out of Baltimore to do that. She just reminds him not to leave the city. It’s left unsaid that he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. 

He walks after he leaves her office, spotting more things that are changed than remained the same. The gentrification level in this part of town isn’t as noticeable as in others, but the businesses are a little more upscale than they were - restaurants and coffee shops rather than cop bars and bond offices. 

He stands across the street from headquarters, far enough away that he won’t be seen. He’s not sure he’d even know anyone now, or if anyone would know him. He didn’t even bother to ask Meldrick if he was still on the force.

Tim goes by his bank and takes out enough to get by, picks up food and some things for the house. He makes a list in his head as he walks, repeating it to himself to remember. He picked up the habit in prison, honed it there. It doesn’t have any practical use, but Tim’s not sure he does either.

**

He takes a cab back to the house, arms loaded down with bags. He stows the food and fixes the door. He’s never been a very good handyman, but it hands well enough to close and lock. He takes another cab to his storage unit and rents one of their trucks to haul the rest of his things back to the house. Not home. Nothing in that house will ever be home.

He piles the boxes inside along with the others, then takes the truck back. He walks for a while before hailing another cab. He’ll have to find a used car. His computer was seized as evidence, so he’ll need another one of those too. Rebuilding his life step by step. Clean the house. Unpack. Computer. Car. Job. Broken down, it’s not overwhelming. 

He starts with bleach. Enough to rid the house of eight years of neglect and homeless visitors. Enough to burn his lungs. Enough to burn the memories from his brain.

It doesn’t work.

**

He finds a job at a grocery store, stocking shelves late at night to the early morning. It’s nice to have a physical job, more like what he did in prison than when he was a cop. He turns his brain off and does his work, feeling the burn of his muscles when he moves boxes of cans and meat and milk. He’s fitter than he’s ever been, his body looking younger even though he feels a hundred years older.

He reports in to his parole officer and gives her his new number. It’s almost like living a real life. He’s never really had a lot of friends, so the solitude is familiar, suits him. He stays away from the internet except for YouTube videos of home repairs. Six months passes in the same routine. 

He’s half asleep in his chair in front of the TV, supposedly catching up on movies he missed. He’s not paying attention. Another explosion. Another hero wins. Heroes don’t really win. Heroes don’t really win. Heroes are supposed to catch murderers, not be them. Bring justice to little girls. 

Tim snaps off the TV and exhales roughly. The problem with parole is there’s nothing he can use to get out of his head.

He heads toward the stairs, switching off the light before he starts to climb. He’s got one foot on the bottom step when there’s a knock on the door. No one’s knocked on his door since he moved back in. No one has a reason to knock.

He walks over and rests his head against the door. He’s done his confession and penance, and he knows there’s no chance for redemption. Even so he swings the door open. The porch light flickers once, then comes on. 

**

“Hello, Frank.”

Frank’s hair is a little grayer, but nothing else has changed. He’s solid. Unshaken. Unmoveable. “Bayliss.”

“What brings you here?”

“As the arresting officer, I was notified of your early release.”

Tim nods. “Yeah, six months ago after only eight years. Guess the baby face finally paid off.”

“Mind if I come in?”

“Actually, I kind of do mind.” Tim frowns and the words almost surprise him. “You were right back then. You and I aren’t friends. Can’t really be friends with someone you’re sure you’re superior to. Of course, I guess you have a reason to be sure.”

Frank uses that same calm, misleading voice he used in the box. “Why did you confess?”

“Still believed in justice, I guess. He committed his crime, and the fact that he got away with it drove me to do what I did. I figured out that if I didn’t get punished, I was no better than him.”

“You gave me no choice.”

“I know.” This time Tim’s smile is real. “That’s why I told you.”

“I spent a lot of time thinking you were an idiot. Good to know I wasn’t wrong.”

Tim sighs. “Why’d you come by, Frank?”

“Honestly?” He frowns and shakes his head, voice sharp. “I don’t know.”

“Then maybe you should go.”

**

Frank doesn’t say anything else, but there’s a combination of anger and annoyance and disappointment in his eyes. Tim knows there was a point when that wasn’t how Frank looked at him, but he can’t remember when it might have been.

**

Nothing changes for a long time. There are no cars parked outside his house. No extra patrols, as if he’s likely to start randomly murder people as opposed to very carefully and deliberately murder a man who escaped justice. Maybe they think he’s gone full vigilante.

He’d like to think, if he had, that he’d be smart enough to hide it.

Still, being left alone is something he’s used to. They kept him isolated in prison, given that he’d helped send a lot of the people there. It’s nice to not have any standards to live up to. He can just go from one activity to the next - job, home, food, sleep. Rinse and repeat. 

One of the other stockers at the store asks him out and he declines. One of the delivery drivers asks him out, and Tim says no to her too. It’s not a lack of wanting to say yes. It’s just the belief that, even if he did, nothing would happen. Could happen. 

Whatever Tim was, he’s not anymore. He’d laugh at the thought if it didn’t actually describe his entire life. 

Meldrick shows up with pizza about nine months after Tim’s release. Tim stares at him for at least five minutes before stepping back. 

**

“I’ve got no idea what you like on your pizza, but I figure you can’t go wrong with pepperoni. And if you don’t like it, you can pick it off. Or I’ll eat the whole damn thing. I’m not picky.”

“Um.”

Meldrick walks in past Tim. “Wanted to pick your brain.”

“Uh.”

“Yeah. I get that. Sit. I mean, we should sit. Your house.”

**

Tim gestures toward the couch. Meldrick drops the pizza on the coffee table and opens the box. It smelled good before, but now it makes Tim’s stomach rumble with an almost angry sound. Meldrick sits and Tim sinks into the chair opposite him. Meldrick grabs a bunch of napkins from his jacket pocket and sets them on the table as well before pulling a slice of pizza away from the rest of it and shoving the tip into his mouth, taking off a bite. 

He gestures with his other hand. “Eat.”

Tim nods and grabs a slice for himself. It’s hot and cheesy and even if Tim’s got no actual desire for anything anymore, pizza is familiar and somehow safe. It’s more than he’s felt for a while. They’re both silent through two slices each then Meldrick wipes his face with a napkin, cleaning the grease from his mouth.

“So.” Meldrick is tense, but trying not to show it. “You watch the news?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Probably a smart move.” Meldrick pulls out a file Tim hadn’t seen from under the pizza box. Hek slides it across the table and Tim’s never been more reluctant to take something, even his first call after Adina. He opens the file and there are a series of pictures. Most are in color, but some stand out in stark black and white. His mouth twitches and he shuts the file. 

“There a reason I’m seeing this?”

“Anything look familiar?”

Tim shakes his head. “Looks like a lot of murder cases look. Gang?”

“Look closer.”

Tim has no desire to do so. Instead he pushes the file toward Meldrick. “I’m not a cop anymore.”

Meldrick: “No. Not officially. But you’re still a cop here.” He points to his head and then his heart. “So look at the damn file.”

Tim inhales and holds the breath for a long moment before exhaling loudly. He leans forward and snags the file again, this time actually looking at the pictures. There’s something familiar. Something he can’t quite put his finger on. He makes himself look past the bodies, and then it hits him.

“The Hardison case. You’re working cold cases now?”

Meldrick’s smile is a tight twist of his lips. “Not so cold anymore.”

“We never found anyone. We never found a clue. A lead on anyone.”

“No. But nowadays we’ve got a little more technology.” Meldrick slides his phone to Tim and nods at it. “Recognize him?”

It doesn’t take long for the name to come to Tim’s mind. It’s the same face, aged a good ten years, but there’s no mistaking it. “David Brady.”

Meldrick nods. “But he had an alibi.”

“It was a shit alibi. But we couldn’t break it.” Tim remembers the frustration, how hot it had been in the box, how angry they’d all been.

“And what would you say if I said he had the _same_ alibi this time?”

Tim raises an eyebrow. “That’s a pretty damn big coincidence.”

Meldrick smiles, and Tim’s pretty sure he’s gotten what he came for. “You know what? My thoughts exactly.”

**

Feeling something isn’t a thing Tim’s used to anymore. But as soon as Meldrick leaves, something hits him in the chest, and it feels like thawing. He stays up all night doing internet searches, even though he knows that his browser history will be searched by his P.O. He can’t be a police officer or a P.I. Hell, he can’t even be a security guard because of his conviction. 

But it’s not a thaw now. It’s a burning.

He’s not sure why or how, but he ends up sitting in a park not far from Frank’s house. He doesn’t know that Frank comes here anymore, but he sits at one of the tables with a chess set, rolling the knight back and forth between his palms.

Frank stands on the other side of the table, huffing a breath in the cold air. “This is the sixth day you’ve been here. You haven’t played a game. You that bad at chess?”

“Yes. But I’m waiting for the right person to play against.” He sets the knight on the board and nods to Frank as he sits across from Tim, smirking at the white pieces. 

“I’m black, you’re white.” Frank says evenly. “You’re playing black, I’m playing white.”

“I was going for more of a morality thing.”

Frank doesn’t say anything, but he moves his first piece. Tim surveys the board and counters. They’re quiet for several moves until Frank finally speaks. “What are you doing here, Bayliss?”

“What are you doing these days?”

“Given what I’m doing right now? Apparently losing my damn mind.” Silence falls again for a few minutes until Frank sighs. “Why?”

“We were good together.” Tim makes another move. “As partners.”

Not sure if you’re aware of this, but I’m retired and you’ve committed and been found guilty of a felony. Felony murder, which is kind of a big deal.”

“But you don’t deny it.”

Frank shrugs, never willing to admit a weakness. “You weren’t awful.”

“And you’re bored, right? Being retired?”

I’m teaching.”

Tim smiles. It’s not an answer. “But you’re bored. Right?”

Frank is quiet again, staring at the chess board. Tim doesn’t say anything, watching Frank as the words process, as he sifts through everything, trying to come up with the answers before Tim can give him the actual question he’s asking. “Mary would kill me.”

“Tell her not to do that. The fall out isn’t really worth it.”

This time Frank snorts a laugh. “You ever going to change?”

“Do you want me to?”

“You’re a goddamn puppy.” Frank shakes his head and moves his castle.

“I can’t be licensed, and I can’t carry a gun. You won’t carry a gun. But we’d be good. We could help people.”

“I didn’t want a partner in the first place.”

“But Gee knew something we didn’t, like usual” Tim doesn’t look hopeful. He can’t. Not with Frank. “So you got one.”.

Frank blows out a slow breath, looking away from the chessboard to the private investigator’s license application Tim’s holding out to him. “Yeah. I guess I do.”


End file.
